


In Which Conscious Reincarnation Happens

by ShikiSha



Category: Naruto
Genre: A little bit of angst, Action, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fantasy, Gen, Light Angst, No pairings - Freeform, No triggers/warnings yet?, Original Character(s), Reincarnation, Self-Indulgent, Self-Insert, alternative universe, premature tags, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2017-10-19
Packaged: 2018-07-27 14:46:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7622800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShikiSha/pseuds/ShikiSha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A SI/OC, Canon Divergent piece. Self indulgent. Will be updated as I can, though I will <b>never abandon a story</b>. Fantasy, adventure, action with a little bit of angst. Also, a little bit on the plot: "You...want Danna to make you into a <em>puppet</em>?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is a _self-indulgent SI/OC_ fanfiction. It is **also** on fanfiction.net- not plagiarised, but on my other profile there, with the same pseudonym. It's also an _updating-as-I-can_ basis.
> 
>  **No WARNINGS/Triggers** _this_ chapter, but if there is anything you feel I have _missed_ or that you _would like_ **_included_** in future **trigger/warning** notices up top (that would also be added to the description bits where you select/input these things...)- or here, in bold, then do PM/Comment it below!  
>  This story does not dispute reincarnation; it shows the journey of a character who consciously remembers it.

#  In Which Conscious Reincarnation Happens

### Chapter One

(“You...want Danna to make you into a _puppet_?”)

The girl raises her downturned head from where it was staring at her hands on her knees, face pensively neutral, eyes sombre, but calm. She makes eye contact with Deidara briefly, eyes almost moving lazily, though the rest of her body does not move, before making contact with Sasori. “Yes.” Her voice is slightly deeper than expected, older than her youthful face suggests. Her eyes look down and for a moment dart sideways – a hint of shyness, before she continues, swallowing gently, “I would like that,” she blinks slowly, closing her eyes and taking a deliberate deep breath, “very much,” she finishes quietly.

Sasori who has not said anything yet so far in regards to an answer, had just looked at her, now tilts his head slightly and asks, “why?” His voice drawls and is rough sounding- he does not often speak.

Her eyes flash quickly up, gauging his face...? Before she replies, explaining, “I am not...giving up my person,” she clarifies gently. Here she sits up, crosses her legs, raises her head and continues. “ I wish..” though her pose is languid, her fists curl beside her legs against the ground. The parched earth rumble-scrapes in the wake of her hands. She clears her throat, frowning lightly, “it is difficult to explain.” She looks at Sasori and something in her eyes beguiles/implores him to understand, somewhere in the back, behind the calm. She takes another deep breath.

“It is...more suited for my purpose.” She finally settles on, nodding firmly at the end.

Deidara and Sasori raise eyes contemptuous and disbelieving, in sync. That does not happen often, that they both agree on something. She sighs quietly, the breath like a quick tide leaving her. She continues on with her request. “I... would like my input in the design,” her eyes focus on a tree nearby, following the grooves perhaps, “should you take up my request. I would pay you,” she confirms, “with what recompense you consider equivalent exchange; be it money, produce-” and here she briefly gestures hands deliberate and elegant, towards Sasori's poison-coating projectiles embedded near her shoulder, to the right. She considers briefly, before continuing, “...or tools” she intones. As if this was the most important. Sasori's tail pauses in its impatient twitching.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word count: 385


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasori's point of view, meeting the SI. Short chapter again, sorry! Will try to lengthen them.  
> If you spot any mistakes or this does not read well, let me know in a PM/comment? Also: this too is short, it will not always be so. Hopefully. ...the build up is _just about_ done now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **No Warnings/Triggers** this chapter. I do not have a beta...so if you spot a mistake, leave a comment? Also: Not sure if this reads well on all devices. If I need to fix something, tell me :)
> 
> Word count: 538

#  In Which Conscious Reincarnation Happens

### Chapter Two

Sasori's POV: 

They're sitting on an outcropping when the stranger first makes an appearance. Sasori lazily looks over from his idiot partner to the interloper.

It is difficult at first glance, to distinguish the stranger’s sex. Their clothing, whilst made of tough material – some sort of leather, is loose, and Sasori suspected, in colours purposely chosen for their unisex design. And then there was the tailoring. Combined with the tailoring the…looseness of clothing suggested what they had here was a civilian. No threat. Sasori intentionally lets his eyes, which had narrowed into a squint, relax.

They- the Akatsuki- don’t necessarily signal their partners. For an organisation such as theirs, is filled with rogues – but also, because at this level, for such a scenario as this, signalling would be for the weak. Say…any collaborations with other hired goons, Sasori uncharitably muses. Or- 

But, not them, though; or partners who did not work well, or were unfamiliar with each other’s movements. He allows part of his attention to shift where his eyes at present can not: towards the Iwa nukenin; briefly contemplating. He and Deidara…work. Roughly; they both, though Sasori disdains to even think it, work. Perhaps because they both believe in art. Though what Deidara calls ‘art’ is…lacking, to put it lightly, in his opinion.

Mere seconds have passed since the strange one stepped into the sparse relatively clear ‘clearing’ where they have settled. Amongst the rocks, Sasori inwardly sniffs. Edging the desert dissatisfies him. A few seconds: a long time for a good ninja. But barely any time at all for a civilian, Sasori expects.

…He is surprised his partner has waited so far, quietly. He’ll speak up soon. 

They are still walking- wait, no. Sasori’s eyes narrow slightly. Strange…fits them. They have swooped, graceful but slow, to the ground, on their knees. They have not looked up yet once. 

So, not a normal civilian, perhaps. Given the garb. Sasori feels the faintest grains of interest in the outside world pique, reluctantly. What kind is it? A detached part of him wonders, what does it want? How much time will be wasted?

Deidara, finally looking up from pretending to not-notice, discreetly hides away his hunks of mud. 

“Who are you, yeah?” He is loud as always, demanding but with his friendly-shop-keeper voice firmly in tune, which, of course, he immediately throws out the figurative window when he opens his mouth- a dangerous pastime, for Deidara, Sasori dryly acknowledges- again, once too soon, “Civilian- what can we do for you, hm?” His brashness is back, though the active tone leaves…behind his usual die-hard couldn’t-care-less nonchalant drawl. He probably thinks he sounds cool or distanced, Sasori mocks to himself. Enough, now. Watch the infiltrator. Sasori’s senses zing, a clean sudden shift, like focus. From his peripheral, Sasori can determine Deidara felt nothing. 

And then, they reply. A strange conversation, in retrospect, remembered years later for what happened afterwards-. The request happens then. 

She does not look up. Sasori can’t blame the odd one really. When she does, that is when they really start getting answers.

Clever girl. The thought is unacknowledged, yet present like the air; the two partners find their opinions synonymous again and Sasori takes note.

*****


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deidara's turn. Have no worries, the plot progresses. Slowly? Slowly.  
> ...Squint and hm. I _lied_. There is more build up; eventually, it will end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Note:** I am writing this at 2:57AM; will need to come back and edit this, heavily perhaps. I do not think there are any warnings needed here this chapter; that's: **No Warnings/Triggers** this chapter.
> 
> Word count: 495

#  In Which Conscious Reincarnation Happens

### Chapter Three

Deidara's POV:

“Perhaps,” she says quietly, “we should reconvene,” and here her eyes dart up again, taking in the suggestion's reception, “to sort through the details.” She continues.  
He can practically _feel_ Danna's scepticism wafting through the air like a bitter stench that won't quit. So, of course he responds too. At Deidara's (responding) suspicious look, which he can admit -grudgingly- was hardly subtle, she pipes up, elaborating in that matter-of-fact, odd manner of speech, “I merely wished to first establish contact with this meeting.” And head tilts forwards to confirm this. A nod, he supposed, feeling his own turn sideways in consideration. It's a bad habit, but whatever. He can afford it. But, he concedes -grudgingly, barely controlling the grumble that wants to make itself heard- this was not about him...It was Danna's choice here. He felt his eyes glide over to the puppet-master, almost against his will. What would he say? Or do, rather? The tide of violence lapped at his consciousness, like a puppy, eager to commit. Deidara refrained. _Not_ _**his** _kill, her-__

Wait. Deidara's eye narrowed. ...He wasn't _really_ considering this, was he? His jerked his attention back to the intruder as she continued – maybe...felt? – the need to speak, the silence lapsing.

She swallows, calling out calmly, “I just needed to pose the idea to you, Akasuna-san.” She lowered her head again. “If you would have me as your client...your project,” she looked up, making eye contact, for one sharp quick moment before her gaze flittered away, “then I would gladly meet with you-” and here she sighed, the breath falling away from her, her clothes fluttering like sails, all the strength gone from her. (emotional- the thought is calculating, like all good shinobi, and tamped down) “And determine the specifics; cost, materials, procedure, meeting-point, tools...-”

“- Meet me at a bar-casino in Tanzaku, Konoha; Fire. Three full moon's from now.” At her slightly startled look – all her looks insofar as emotions go, were minimalist, except once or twice- Sasori clarified, sounding briefly grumpy. “At 3 hours from noon-time. Exactly.” She nodded gently. It goes without saying that she gives up right to this chance if she is late. As he will not be there.

When it became clear he was not going to continue, she asked, as she stood up, delicately,but with the unease of a civilian (-body untrained), “and will you look yourself- as you are now? How will I know it is you, Akasuna-san?” It is a smart question. For a civilian. Sasori's tail clicks its approval.

“I will be by the citrus slot machine, at the bar with sushi, but no tea. With me shall be a boy with grey hair and glasses. I will not be Hiruko at that time.” He shifts, signalling that they are to leave first. Deidara prepares to move. But first.

“The bar with the lotus sign, yeah,” he smirks before jumping on the clay bird and flying off.

 

*****


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the author posts a chapter to keep the flow of writing going, has not edited _at all_ (sorry) and is Pretty Sure this is only _part_ of the chapter. To Be Finished soon - coursework and practicals everywhere. I've been working on this chapter a lot - it's a WIP for sure - there are stubborn bits still, (particularly **Orochimaru's** parts) so they haven't been included yet. Sorry! Do enjoy, though. Orochimaru's being stubborn.
> 
> Word count: 1694

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings/Triggers:** May be **some** upsetting triggers this chapter, **anxiety and a brief/ suggestion of a panick attack and description**. Please, take care, be warned! 
> 
>  
> 
>  **AN:** I realised I had made a _slight_ flaw: in Deidara being Sasori's partner, Orochimaru can't be – right? Well, maybe (and yes I am probably clashing horribly with some anime video showing/proving he did leave and then Deidara came) not. So, it should go without saying that this is most assuredly not canon-compliant. Orochimaru is a frustrating character to write. I haven't entirely decided on who I think he is, and then – Mitsuki happened, so. I'll see how this goes. Wish me luck ! As always, feedback is something I would appreciate – and questions.

#  In Which Conscious Reincarnation Happens

### Chapter Four

I had no idea what I was doing.

The panicked thought fluttered through my mind, swamping in my chest after having rushed up from my abdomen, my forearms, my fore(were they even called that? Why not?)-legs, my feet. They landed in the soft, mushy space that was where I floated in my mind.

I watched the world from there.

I was not part of it. I took a deep breath and let the shiver run through me. Deep breath. In, hold, 2, 3 - out, 2, 3, 4, 5. Breathe. Just breathe.

*****

 

_Flashback:_

 

  I had closed my eyes at some point. Or not opened them yet, grim, grim. I felt...at one...as one, with my mind again. Whole. Aware. Active not passively watching from someplace deep inside. The peace, whilst probably brief, was wonderful. I felt the tingly sensation in my chest, up my throat, behind my eyes and under my lashes.

 I imagined the soft pan pipe music - some track, one of many, I'd heard before - and focused on the light coming through my lids. I smiled and opened my eyes.  

Warmth (Italics). Warmth; it was everywhere. I am in a glade, a meadow. There are trees - normal, so I am probably somewhere near home, or in the same country - or climate. Autumn colours are abound. It's...lovely to look at. The grass is green and there is no mud. It's not muddy here, yet-  

Something sharpens behind my eyes. Have you ever felt that before? It's like the analytical side of your mind comes forth. I looked around. And felt that fade slightly, not to the background as it was before, but...more the middle ground. The sunlight filtered through a bit, and the grey clouds like mist dispersed, as the sun shined upon the dynamics of the sky. The first thing I felt, other than the wave, amongst the tide of anguish filling my throat, sinuses and eyes, that I had been avoiding - was relief. Horrible, terrible relief.  

There was no one here who knew me - no one to use me. No one.

  No one I was attached to and couldn't stop myself from helping; no one to spend time with me only for advice, help, attention. What  _I_ could do for them (my craft). I felt my eyes close, the lash-line pressing together tightly, as I tried to reign in the emotions. I was alone. I loved my friends, my family. I still believed in the inherent goodness of people. I knew I did. But...

  At this moment in time, I was having difficulty in my belief - my faith, my very perception of the world, the lens with which I judged, weighed, attempted to understand, interpreted, was clouded. I felt a bitter grief and tried to prevent it from twisting my lips, from etching itself on my mouth - or for the sorrow from touching my eyes. For such a thing could be nigh on permanent. I licked my lip. Before biting down. I breathed. Deep, slow. I know people are good inside, unless or until, perhaps, they feel they have gained a reason for not being good anymore - a lot of the whole, the world hurt me, I don't care anymore, sort of thing. But I had spent the last few days thinking about -or trying not to think about, until I couldn't help it anymore- how I longed for a friend...who spent time with me, for me. I wondered once, if I stopped helping or giving advice to my friends, how many of them would spend time with me still. Would bother to talk to me, smile, seek my company for company's sake.

 I kept putting myself out there - and this sort of line of thought is so over-simplified, biased, negative - isn't it? And it takes up all of your attention, fills the mind, clouds the water that had been so clear in my mind, my inner eye blind. It's a deeep human instinct, or a common one at least, to want to hurt others when we are hurtng - maybe because we have to show we are strong despite the hurt, that even though something or someone got through and hurt us, we are still strong; maybe to say 'I am stronger than you [the person they hurt]' or I may have been hurt, but I am still strong; the same wave or like and like thoughts, really.                                                                          

     Lashing out. That's not all, or the only reasons why - we hurt and that's not fair or okay, so we want to vent that pain, spread it elsewhere, and we do that by hurting someone to the same level we were hurt - or more, because that's definitely the easiest way to ensure it'll hurt them and not us anymore. Sometimes it aches still, afterwards, and the guilt builds up and horrifies us. Human nature vs individual differences comes into question. Thinking these thoughts - the negative emotional ones, at least, make it harder to be objective, from being subjective, make it harder to find the one truth in the scenario. Or truths. It makes it hard, and that's all I want - the truth. So I had to hold it in. ...and Now, I'm here, in the middle of no-where? Someplace else.  

I shouldn't feel happy or relieved, but I do. I do. I can think in peace now and look on the situation from a distance - literally - as I make my way back. I can't change that. I'm not sure it's right – or how wrong it is to feel this way. But it's how I feel. I don't want to be used anymore. I'm not okay with being treated like this anymore, and that's how it is- and that's okay. Not saying my friends use me, exactly, but that they expect it from me – all the time. And it's certainly not an even exchange, with some. It's uneven and wonky and indistinct and they don't talk or visit or any other minutia of things that they do with other 'close' friends; that'd all be okay...as it has been...except I don't want to do that anymore. I can't. I keep putting off my own things, all the time, as if they expect me to be free all of the time; I'm not free or wanting to be the vent-box all of the time. And that's okay. Not all of my friends are like that, either, which is good. I'm just tired. I don't want to have to check myself every moment I'm with them; to want to leave and not be around them anymore, or to become twisted or bitter; or repressed or have any of those 'complicated' negative-positive relationships like I'd read about as a child, and thought, 'that's silly/stupid/why don't they leave them then? They're bad for them!' I didn't want to be passive-aggressive, or become something else – for anyone, like a liar, who uses what are supposed to be good gestures as bad ones with ill intent or makes back-handed compliments, or worse (and I know I can do this): someone who tears down others by pointing out their 'flaws' or inconsistencies to them, shows them their 'cruel' or 'mean' or 'bad' behaviour towards myself to tear them down.                                                          

         I don't want to do that. I could cause complexes, insecurity, sadness, pain, hurt; it's not worth it. Nothing is worth the hurt I can cause. No. Not ever. I will not become that thing who harms their friends. Or anyone –through malicious intent. I will not. There's nothing wrong with wanting to be separate or taking a break from it all, for feeling relief. So what if I feel relieved? I can feel JOY, sheer full-milk-cartons JOY at being by myself and not feel guilty. No guilt; you are human, just like them, and everyone needs breaks. You're an -I open my eyes.

_ End Flashback   _

 I had no idea what I was doing. But hopefully, everything would be okay, a small part of me wished fervently; a disparate flame, almost guttered out that despite all that had happened, endured. 

I would endure.

*****  

There were very many ways to get killed here, I mused; almost guileless. There were many ways to get killed anywhere. But the probability was perhaps higher here? That I couldn't come to a conclusion about this eased my mind a little, and the main focus of my thoughts became the only focus: tools. I needed tools. For that I needed money, or something to

tools.

I needed tools. For that I needed money, or something to trad- no. Tools for money. First, I plot what I need, where I can probably go to get them and the budget and route, then I can acquire money as I can. My mind, sluggish with the release of tension at a plan, tired, did not see anything wrong with this basic attempt... Money for tools and materials for more tools, then I can see. Hm..What I want: rebreather – definitely, useful and possibly life-saving, Ame and Kiri probably have lots of shops/stalls that sell them where I can pick them up as they’re so common, but they’re both ninja villages so these shops may be watched...better go to Ame then? But Kiri is also pretty unstable at present...hm. _Need to check what point in the timeline I am in._

What else? Need to establish an exercise regimen – being weak here would do me no good. My eyes narrowed, as I dressed. Even if I wished to remain a civilian. ….A network, informal, of sorts, would do some good too. One time being of use would be enough. Huh; one corner of my lips upturned, and I knew a lopsided smile was budgeoning/beckoning, a graceless, crooked, positively dork-ish look on my face (whatever THAT looks like-), I bet plenty of ninjas underestimate the potential and ...yeald of a civilian 'network'. Let them. More the shame on them. I let the smirk grace my face as I slipped my sandals onto painted-toed feet, strolling from the room to begin my search.

*****


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The author realised exhaustion is key to writing easier. What even.
> 
> Hello everyone reading this!  
> Lovely of you to read, or welcome new reader/s!!  
> This has gone through so many edits - and versions of this chapter alone, and additions and order changes that there are probably basic mistakes. Point them out if you like! It'll be helpful :)  
> I will endnote-post the citations, okay? :) They are some definitions and story notes, I suppose. 
> 
> Anyways - enjoy, let me know what you think, if anything's unclear, if you have any guesses on e.g. who characters are or where things are happening.
> 
> FINALLY - I wonder how many (if) of you will get the reference? If so, kudos and cookies for you! :) If so (also) : this is fanfiction, I reserve the freedom to use this :). Not exactly the same - just the name is taken and aspects of that...well. More later! 
> 
> THIS IS IN THE ROUGH.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mega- chapter (for me). I forgot I had written so much initially and now I've added more (This has been sitting since... February - the first couple of pages - ).  
> Not beta-read. For updates periodically check my profile! THIS WILL BE EDITED LATER AGAIN (the whole fic really why not). I figure I better post this before it sits another year entirely.  
> Triggers/warnings (I think) - distress, flashbacks, panic attack, trauma.
> 
> Word count: 2,322  
> Word count (updated): 4,995 aprox.  
> Wordcount (05/05/18) 5, 285 aprox.

#  In Which Conscious Reincarnation Happens

### Chapter Five

 

Sasori needed the tools.

 

She wants to supply tools as an independent supplier (‘ _autonomous_!' part of _her_ slyly susurruses), with seasonal outlets and a limit number of personal requests or customs by a set date. The business is small, but she somehow ends up supplying more than she realises, and it draws attention. Which she dislikes very much - she can't help making tools, it's part and parcel of what she does, _darn_ the attention is _bad_ though – pre-industrial world’s, _for the most part_ , are so _delicate_. (Once, now a lot of the time, she said to herself: imagine there's a curse, and for every person who thinks about you, or your work, a bit of your life gets lost, so pay attention to not being interesting. Last time, she ran.  She is hoping she wins –this time- because even though violence is not new to her, this world has a singularly…open and very different set of social norms attached towards perpetuating it, _which she does not_ share _at all_. She can’t afford the attention. She can’t. Not people like her.) So, attention-danger: which she’d started to gather, here, is rather aware of and which she dislikes very much is something she is going to need to balance. Somehow.

 

Which brings her to the present dilemma. She can help him with that. It would be ideal if he was not aware she made them. But she needs him. And she needs him to need her in order to not be cut out of a deal – or disposable. But how to do so without awareness of her establishing it (the further business; the outlet idea has promise, and – well. Her identity can be fixed, perhaps. Will Mr. Sasori – and his partner, and whoever else he’s with who sees her pre-change, agree to the terms? She hopes. It would be such a shame to figure out how to graft her consciousness and create a proper model with proper components herself).

 

Nonetheless, it seems whilst she's considering the schematic for the body she wishes to inhabit, she must make some sample tools for Mr. Sasori's craft. What do carpenter's need? Does she still have the depository of information accessible to her before…now? She knows some tools he'd need, otherwise she will just have to ask around the trader's stalls and markets and workshops until someone who uses the tools can tell her, and get a look. Travelling and doing that might be fun, actually. So, supply and merchant run, schematic and terms check before the third moon.

 

Hm. Maybe she will do that anyway, whilst contemplating the schematic herself...for propensity/prosperity/efficiency, of course. Then, if Mr. Sasori likes the samples, and finds her schematic agreeable they can agree on a quota and he can share with her the tool list he requires.

She will have to consider if she’s doing weapons this time around, too. Hm, because that might be a bad idea. Knives for cooks may be as close as she gets. But that might be close enough to encourage submissions of a harsher sort. She'll have none of that.

 

Bother.

 

Who to supply tools for? Mm, she can anticipate supplies to workers - builders, carpenters, blacksmiths if they'll need anything, artisans. That should be enough. Crafters. And no limit to where either. - Konoha, Ame, Suna, Kumo, Grass, Waterfall. Who cares? Mist. But. There are other, intrinsic things she can do, too. Bother, should she do them or not? The thinking is hard to do when she's thinking about tools and uses - she just wants to make them and make stuff with them darn it - they = she's trained well, unfortunately.

 

Perhaps as a backup.

 

Maybe she can make architecture tools – and. She doesn’t know what else. But useful bits and pieces. But will she supply the seals? It's hard not to supply any weaponisable things. From what she gathers, they don't _actually_ have as advanced a warfare attitude as her previous home, for all that the human propensity for conflict and therefore, talks frustrated, fighting - and violence, definitely seems tapped. But the ingénues haven’t made anything like the kind of damage her home world did. Hm. ‘ _And I guess that’s what happens when people have so much inherent power, here._ _’_

 

That’s another thing. Frowning, she feels it in her too; a little bit now. She slept when she first got here that first rest period. Woke up with some. But her own energy is still within her _, thank the Gods_. Wonder how that reads? So. Should she make glyphs? Or not? They make wonderful tools. So useful. Here they call them seals, _maybe_. Though she is uncertain they have the animals here it leaves confusion here. Much so. But there will be no supplying doors. Or wards. None no sir. No keys. She will have her own, pins and chalks and charcoals certainly. But no doorways for anyone.

 

Oh... She will also need to come up with a contact name, won't she? …Did she ever introduce herself to Sasori? _Or not_ , she thinks. That might count as odd, she thinks with a vague sense of unhappiness. It's brief. Next time, she sighs. Next time, she'll give the contact name. Of course, her method of tool making is not always conventional, and definitely not what is done here, she thinks. A smug part of her opines _, ‘not back **there,** either-‘, _ before dying _._ It wouldn't do to flood the markets. Right? That's what people say – said. Back home, other sellers and suppliers. Maybe she should just supply one- no. One country doesn't work. Civilians only? Except Sasori? Maybe. It's something to consider. And or she could just make small suppliable amounts, only? BUT what's small, exactly? What constitutes a small order? But definitely seasonal works.

 

That gives her, what, 87 days? She’d just been grateful the times matched up, growing up – hours, lunar phases, that is. Though they seem to use a solar calendar which is…different, given that the lunar calendar is what she’s used to. She’s heard of _sola-lunar_ calendars, but _still_. Alarm flashes through her: Sasori had used lunar phases for time. Her eyes narrow in thought. That was suspicious, wasn’t it? Or not. Maybe de-patriated ninjas used them. Or just Mr. Sasori. 87 days to chart a course through markets and back, without drawing attention to herself…Alright! She needed _more_ maps – something, alas, she steadfastly was lacklustre in creating.  

 

* * *

 

A woman, of indiscriminate age, somewhere between 20 – 35, stern of countenance but calm in Aura, stands alone in the doorway of the (Superstore). She pauses a moment, taking in the scenery, maybe, the bustling dirt and stone, roughshod street/walkway, full of people in their day to day life. Or maybe she's hesitating = the rain, not the heaviest, is still substantial for an outlander, and comes in continuous, deceptively misty sheets. Fine but able to soak through in little time. The hustle and bustle. That phrase it applies everywhere, it seems, where people congregate. Usually (I can think of a few exceptions really- few and wonderful, usually; my brain avoids the bits that aren't fun-). ~~A song is in my head at the moment – We Talk Too Much, COIN.~~  Gods, Mizu is _gorgeous_. _Actually freaking_   _gorgeous_. If one ignores all that is aggressive, dangerous, and war torn about it. But really. Wow.

But that could be the bias of the trade agreement tenuously hashed out here. It’s a general template she’s worked with before that should suffice for starting out. She steps out into the mist-fog, low and refreshing as always, steadily meandering through the streets, to the tavern a short distance away.…Although, Kirigakure is beautiful, with it’s garden rooftops and green amongst the mist almost glowing, …it also can’t be denied that she probably got such a good deal because the economy is not so great. Presently. And, she thinks, turning into the Inn for her key, not the least because of the palpable air of …immense…recent suffering. In her travels – _lightly_!- exploring Kirigakure, there are what look like rust stains on some of the grey buildings, sometimes, that the mist, ever-present, can’t hide and the mud can’t quite blend with. Nevertheless, she brightens, the trade talks went well! Hopefully a deal will be further worked on when – if- demand for her work goes up.

 

A man stands at the counter. He’s leaning on it, so it seems like he’s lazy…But the moment she enters, the bell ringing above the door heralding her, she can feel eyes on her. She’s careful to keep her relaxed posture and slowly look from the framed painting on the wall to the desk. And nod, as she walks to him. His eyes are sharp for a moment and then become inert (they’re not soft), professional. “Here for your key, visitor?” He grunts out. At her nod and noncommittal murmur of acceptance, “I’ll get it, one moment.” Before making a show of opening the drawer and then another behind him to get the key, withdrawing it from an inner pocket? His sleeve, it looked like. His shoulder twitched, slightly. …Ex-ninja? Swallowing, she looks to the till and green plant by it, examining its arches and leaves, the stem, counting how many there are…until he turns around.

 

She’d asked him to keep it for her whilst she went out, earlier. Idly, with a moment of regret in the base of her mouth she can’t afford to acknowledge right now, she notes that showing awareness of rougher places, and customs, probably not helped with her apparent youth and maybe, heck, even gender…means she needs to be more formidable. Just slightly. Or grimmer? She’s been sombre a lot. Serious. On the outlook. It’s a thought for later.

There have been lots of…testing moments, like that. Today. Maybe he meant it. Maybe he didn’t, beyond sating his own suspicions or curiosity – but it did her no good, regardless. These people only seem to think badly of those who also see; ninja see observance of a higher level as other ninja; thieves as fellows; merchants…as crooks or persons of suspect.

 

“Thank you, Hisakawa-san.” She bows slightly and turns to leave, careful not to make eye contact – look at the walls, over shoulders! A nonchalant grunt is her reply. She steadily walks to her room. …He was clearly a retired ninja, and given the village she’s in…not from a peaceful time, either. Not that it’s peaceful in Kirigakure now. She bites the inside of her lip. ‘ _Not now, rest_.’  Opening her door, she takes off her shoes (practical boots, waterproofed and wool-lined), scarf (fluffy wool and warm, kept mostly dry under the tab and hood of her coat), raincoat and backpack and leaves them to dry completely by the heater. Sighing, she slips on slippers and crouching, extracts the scrolls, before picking up another jumper she’d left by the door. She enters the small attached kitchen. She allowed herself the spoil this once, not quite ready or wanting to order or go into a community-shared mess to eat or drink anything hot. The tea set to boil, she sits, into a meditative pose. Closing her eyes, it’ll take five or so minutes to boil. She needs calm. 

 

The shrieking of the whistling kettle snaps me back to awareness; I grab the handle with a cloth (my own) and poor the steaming liquid through the steel contraption in my cup. I don’t need to do that; it’ll soak in the water anyway. It’s a habit I suppose.

Settling down, I slouch, staring into the red liquid (berries, dried, for this tea). I perk briefly; the agreement went well[1]! I feel that I got a lot out of it! I should remember that success, geez. For now, I hum, lightly under my breath -happy- I should enjoy the local cuisine and see the other goods that may be of use! I planned one more day here, after all; the room’s payed for, too for another night. So, why not? Nothing I am doing is wrong, it shouldn’t garner any significant attention – even in a village recovering such as this – especially given _how much_ everything will be spread out. The scope was a success~! I want Manju.

Drawing out one of the scrolls from the small pile, a blue end one, I can finally enjoy my tea whilst re-reading it As expected, for a ‘miscellanious’ material (but is truly an indespensible ingredient), Mizu is good for clay supply – other good places are probably the costal regions and other islands…I can always check in the next stop…But alas, they have some great stuff here, high in zinc, so I have my collected samples for later comparison! And tests. My eyes are inevitably drawn to the window. The grey makes all the green and colours pop – nature glows, here, yes? …As a thought crosses my mind, I hurriedly finish my tea and re-seal (wax, not sigils) the scroll, before almost-rushing out the door again. 

 

* * *

 

She sighs, again. She’s been alternately silent and watchful or sighing and watchful. The rain here is no fun. It’s all…too breeze-y and bi-polar. It makes her head ache. The straw hat she donned, following the few locals – all civilian, like her, of course- custom, stops the sudden heavy downpours from getting under her hood, atleast. It’s a lacquered, dark thing, ugly – but useful.

 

Ah, well. She’s not here to sight see; it’s a stop along the way. And she’s _here,_ to pay her respects. Also, as she swore to the locals. Not to steal or snoop. Just pray a bit.

Well. It’s not a shrine – in the traditional, national sense – but it counts, here, to these people.

“Hurry up, and make yer respects, girlie.” The perpetually angry – now grumpy- villager rumbles.

 

“Okay,” her voice is quieter than usual. Almost mouse-like, from disuse and extensive thought processes. She’ll have smarter observations of people with voice intonations like hers is now, in the future – there are maybe signs of people who are thinking much but saying little, in voices like hers.

 

Clasping her hands, palm to palm, and against her bowed head, she closes her eye (the other is swollen shut – but that’s another thing). Her thumbs press lightly on her forehead, offering grounding contact in such a place, suddenly darker.

 

‘Please let the souls be guided from this place, finding rest and hopefully one day peace.’ She remembers the sigil she made one time, to see ….and promptly adds, ‘if, on my next visit, there are any who seek comfort, or words with the living, then I swear to try and oblige. This once.’ She hopes. ‘Just this once’. She blinks the tears away from one eye, but the swollen one won’t hide it, and so she has to wipe it away manually. –

“- Ah, there, now, girl,” Who knew ‘Rumbles’ could be so soft to a stranger? She sniffs.

“It’s fine,” she rasps.

“Not used to prayin’,” his face makes a discerning expression, he can’t seem to help it, though his eyes are soft as pillows, “or seein’ so much dead?”

She takes a deep breath, blinks a lot, when that doesn’t work, and stops the next wave of tears, scraping out, “much regretful there’s war-remains to be seen, in the first place.”

His expression relaxes. There might be a little respect there, but she doesn’t see it long, before she has to wipe her face again, ducking, chin nearly to her chest. “All those people,” she states, looking away at the ground decisively. She breathes out slowly, before continuing. She nods, “let’s go back now” and looks to ‘Rumbles’ for confirmation.

 

He’s looking at her peculiarily before nodding, expression relaxing into that grumpy frown he favours - or seems to, before marching on. She only looks back once, not stopping.

 

The wall of ( _Oni_?) masks, horned, painted and haired, under the triple whirls stares back.

 

The villagers had been clear to what they want from her: a quick stop here, at the shrine and then back, to the camp she’s staying at. Being escorted across the island should maybe feel flattering, and maybe in another world it would have been, she snarks internally, but here it’s …grim. Saddening, if she thinks harder. She almost tries to avoid looking at the sheer carnage around her. What natural ecosystem was here, is slowly enveloping the place, and it’s collapsed buildings – so advanced, for this world, such a shame, Gods mercy- and -. She thinks that it’ll be an improvement, from the desolation, to have this collapsed society blanketed by the nature that was almost destroyed by whatever succeeded in getting them. War, probably. She’d ask if she weren’t so smart. Rumbles suggested as much, earlier, anyway.

That night they set down for camp close to dilapidated buildings because there was no choice – they were everywhere at this point- but carefully not under them. Things fell-down, sometimes, apparently. ‘Bad luck to hide in the shadows of the dead’ she can’t help but opine. She gets some extra katsuobushi[2] with her soba noodles, too, though. So not all bad.

 

Several days later they make it to the docks, as planned. She departs a day after that. If her backpack is slightly heavier, that’s between her and the Sawakuchi clan[3].

 

* * *

 

“Good evening Orochimaru-sama,” a lone kneeling figure greets, monotonous. It’s…not as robotically spoken as the _usual_ marionettes… sent by _that_ man. It’s… male, too -though that’s a little difficult to discern – or would be, for most - and small, but that’s common for _this_ sort. Amusing, potentially. They don’t last all that long, after all …so fun to play with. You can almost see their limited thought processes _click_ as they try to respond: training they lack – clashing with their ingrained training to complete the mission at all costs.

 

The little clockwork boy moves, standing from the scraping position into a standing, but no less deferential pose. Arms clasped behind the back, back straight, shoulders back…Orochimaru shifts head tilting, amused. The last one had kept kneeling. It had not seen his displeasure, when he’d made it known. It couldn’t react. This one’s head is still bowed, but…They learn, eventually.   

 

It- he speaks. “My master sends his greetings and offers information you might find useful.” He waits obviously, obliviously for a response. The pause is obnoxious and too long. Evidently, this one has been instructed to wait until given a response to continue and can’t improvise or intuit yet. Like a _child_. Derision narrows his ochre yellow eyes. Leaning back slightly, tongue (still in his mouth) touching a fanged canine lightly in thought. Root makes people that really are _just_ tools – not soldiers capable of wielding them.  

 

It’s no longer amusing, for now.

 

The silence continues. Orochimaru’s nails _tap-tap-tap_ lightly against the stone obelisk he’s enthroned on – a giant, thin gothic piece (had this been another world), that suits him. It’s grey and some form of mineral, fossilised.

 

Until, irked slightly, Orochimaru responds, impatient, “… _yes_?” Coaxing was required. Evidently. How irritating. If it’s hissed slightly no one points that out.

 

Were it not obvious by now, Orochimaru would have thought the brat was copying him; he tilts his head slightly, as if in askance, light glinting off his sheet-pale hair a little, before replying. “Do you wish for the intel, Orochimaru-sama?”

 

“It would seem so.” His patience is running thin. He has experiments running to monitor.

 

“Danzo-sama has sought to notify you on a possible ‘blip’ in the radar, around Konohagakure, that has recently increased activity exponentially and that sources have found to be travelling. It may be there is a ‘hole in security’, Danzo-sama has instructed to say.”

 

Bored, “Why does Danzo want to share this with me?” And suspicious. What does the old man want? This is more transparent than he usually is.

  
“Danzo-sama wants no unknowns, outliers, in his city. The ‘blip’ is female – her absolute non-presence does not make sense in Konohagakure. In present-day Konohagakure. She was picked up…after preliminary scans had already admitted her into the village.” These facts are relayed quick, efficient and without inflection. If possible, the toy boy would relay confusion or unease, perhaps, Orochimaru thinks amused.

 

The runt continues, thoughtless but with more emphasis – he must have practised a lot, and amused though he is…he still needs this old man, and instinctively pays more attention. He hates that. “Danzo-sama wishes to ask-” and there it is, “-  is she from and I have been instructed to quote, ‘your sector’..?” Orochimaru sneers. How would he know? A female –

 

So, interested a little, he asks, “…female what? They are, surprisingly, not all the same – and not interchangeable. Sometimes.” Most people are only sometimes useful.

 

The root-agent continues, “ Also: ‘Do you know anything about her? What do you know about her?’ And that is a picture sketch drawn, a copy for your perusal, Orochimaru-sama.”

 

Curious, he lets the imbecile approach. It’s rough, and vague. But coloured. …He doesn’t recognize it. He says as much. “I don’t think she’s one of mine.” It’s slyly amused.

 

It continues, again – there’s more. Goody. “I am instructed to remind Orochimaru-sama that, as per our agreement,” Orochimaru hisses lightly, annoyed, “- any information concerning our border interests would be appreciated.”

 

The agent…doesn’t quite admit it, but basically is saying they’ve looked actively and found nothing on her. Orochimaru steeples the fingers of one hand to cradle and half hide his lower face, his hair shadows the rest. He can’t seem to want to help the smirk shifting his features. How…Is it weak of them or strength of the blip? But he mustn’t get excited, there’s work to be done, plans to enact. He can’t afford to let Danzo suffer for his incompetence…yet.

 

“ – did she come through your border/town at some point? She did not from Bear, Mizu or Stone, we can confirm. We do not currently have more up to date information on her – other than her recentmost travel plans in the last fortnight. The list is in the document after the sketch.”

 

It is actually somewhat varied a list. Curiousity flares – and, it turns out, so does irritation. Surprise, surprise. He finds that he is annoyed at being in the dark too. Trust Danzo to not share why else this one is important. But important nonetheless. How odd to blend in, be so mediocre, so average as to be unremarked, or remembered….no…Yes. It’s a well-done job. Of course. Infiltration? Perhaps. But the fact remains; “…No,” and it’s a snarl behind his fortified mask, this was not his underling, “ I am unaware of who this is.” Yellow eyes sharply dagger the lone shape, “For now,” he clarifies. Then, switch-flipped, he goes languid. “I shall have this checked, but if the female has not come through our border -either way- there are ways to find out more.” Not that he intends to. She did not look obviously like a ninja – but then, what infiltration specialist does? And what one wonders so much so obviously? Or was she a civilian. “It would help to know why you want intel on her so badly,” he hisses.

 

“Our intel finally suggests that she is some form of crafter – or that she is undercover as one – but she displays we are told adequate skill. But she is an outlier and behaved strangely at times, not knowledgeable in common customs and displaying several opinions unapproved of in-village.” Oh, he’s sure they don’t approve of such a strange visitor. But if she displayed odd…viewpoints?...in-village, and it was noted, how did she get in without notice? How odd.

 

Well, “you know where she is now.” It wasn’t a question. “I’ll send one of mine,” a gesture and there’s a chakra signature whirring away, and gone, “to accompany you or whoever to whomever is shadowing the… ‘blip’ – so we…can be sure she hasn’t wandered here before.” Smirk showing now the advantage is pressed, he leans forward, “After all, the sketch leaves much to the imagination…and the lack of intel is staggering.” Smirking, he gestures, “you may go report back to your master now. But – do aid my soldier first, hm?”

 

Ninja, civilian, pirate, merchant or not – his curiosity has been kept, for now. She’s …a potential interest, “and we’ll keep watch,” – crafters are useful…and a knowledgeable/skilful…eccentric one too? Not bound by social norms? Could be most useful; establishing a village can be easy for one such as him. Maintaining it, especially with his special ninja’s such as they are, can be a challenge, however.  

 

* * *

 

“...What do we _call_ you?” It's impatient, commanding, brisk. But still so smooth. Only the slight emphasis on 'call' gives it any indication of impatience at all, to me. The language intonation here really is more consciously careful, I note before -

 

_“Get him, **now**! -_

[In, 1, 2, 3, 4..]

_What-?_

[Out, 5, 6, 7, 8..]

 **_NO_ ** _! What are **you doing**?!_

[It's not real. In.]

 **_GET_ ** _THE-”_

 

And Out... A moment passes and I blink, slowly looking – just over the shoulder. “Keymaker.” It comes out quiet, as per norm, but per-functionary – almost gruff. I clear my throat, looking over to the side and back before I can help it, at the rough, stained wooden wall slats. “Call me Keymaker.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sasori almost doesn't decide to do it. He has so much he cares much more for, really, that he considered leaving off the background check. Except that won't _do_. He closes the door to his rooms, settling besides his desk and workbench. He takes some kunai, a spare tail joint, and pulls out the polish and a sharpening stone, as he considers. He eyes the blade edge of a kunai, dissatisfied. ...It's sloppy and that's not him. His eyes narrow in irritation, self-recriminating. He spends a moment on it, until it gleams, a knife's-edge again. He places the kunai on the desk besides the others (and the joint). He takes out an empty scroll from the top drawer, writing implements and inks are already laid out on part of it. It's large enough, the desk, in his personal rooms, that the surface area has room to spare still. The desk he'd had commissioned. Akatsuki, and therefore Sasori, could afford it. Missions were good. The irritation leaves him suddenly. He picks up the writing brush and inscribes his order parameters.

 

So he (will) requests it in the end, not that it'll turn up anything unusual, probably. She's only civilian, goes unsaid. That done, he seals it in his scroll, puts that away in his bag to be passed on, without thinking much on it/with little attention on it. Once he leaves the current base. It's inefficient, none but Akatsuki may enter the bases, not even servants/not even spies, but ultimately sound enough advisement. She's civilian, certainly. But – her request was certainly strange. Tools, where many, himself included, would want weapons.  He can understand the want _out_ of the pathetic carcass of biological matter many call their bodies, though.

 

Too fragile, degrading always, messy a container for a consciousness such as his, he's always felt. Lots of potential shinobi – and minds, could do so much more if they had but better shells. At least that he can understand. The civilian will be checked as everyone else is checked. With an almost imperceptible head tilt, he resumes his polishing of the tail joint, pause ended.

 

Only for a moment of shock to pass through him. He pauses again, freezing despite himself.

 

The civilian. Her name, what is it? Bitter amusement fills him; he doesn't know it. Such basic knowledge. He checks the scroll, he'd put civilian down, but the name is absent, as he thought. He'll have to provide a description – except. That won't quite work, either. She doesn't stand out, she's civilian – his thoughts snap off. She _better_ be civilian, he muses darkly, something slow but dangerous paying attention, creeping oozing out until it's under the shell and his ‘skin’ almost. No, he will not doubt his own assessment: she's civilian. It relaxes a little, but does not sleep now. It won’t until confirmed. Sasori will be paying attention more so than his usual 'default' languor now. He gets up, scroll stored in the puppet's arm.

 

There can be no guarantee his spies will be getting the correct background information on her, she's so dull - Except _that request_. She dressed a little strange, for a civilian too. But that matters little. He doesn't know where she hails from or lives. That is unacceptable. He will have the message, low priority but certainly one, to background check someone of her description. That brat, Deidara, was there, too. Surely, Sasori thinks, moving towards the door, he will have some input, like with everything else, and though his chatter is usually unwanted and inane – here, at last, may plausibly be some use for it, after all.

 

The tail joint is left, forgotten, on the workbench-desk, forlorn.

 

 ~~

 

 

He anticipates the challenge, or at least the novelty, as it will be different at least – the tools he suspects, will be supplied by her, for installation in her new body. It's his art, of course he's interested despite himself. If he accepts the proposal of course. 

But someone could capture her. Suna, slow and stupid as they are, still has Chiyo/the old woman, and eventually they could – when something is torn into the pieces, eventually you can figure it out how to put it back together again, no genius required when all the pieces are there to re-assemble. Just focus/obsession/diligence. Also, no one has ever requested such from him. His puppets, when he served in the corps/core, were still his own. This would not be such a case:  would this be him relinquishing his art, or having someone buying it? Recognising it, surely, but was this something he could accept? He would meditate on this later. Her plans will factor in, potentially.

 

If the tools were good enough and the schematic request good then they could move onto the amounts, when and – he would have to relinquish, and this time there's no doubt about it, no doubt at all that she could read into it – at least a bit – but would be her way of paying, a good way, it's a worthy tithe/offer, it makes sense he also has cost to pay equal or less so, and it's for a long time; but he would have to relinquish the tool list, so carefully bought and procured before, separated by many miles, countries and suppliers, all from one person. Or almost all...He has no doubt his choice is this. But it must be an equal exchange. Also, he has little to no doubt she could figure out at least some purpose from that list alone. But was she interested in puppetry? Probably not.

 

* * *

 

 Gulls cry, the Sun is shining down, notably hotter because of her lack of exposure as of late and it is bustling, bursting with businesses and people. She booked a convoy close to where her next trip is – she looks forward to seeing ninja from different domains meet at the switchover. ‘ _I bet they don’t do that often here – that’s a planned journey, folks, welcome to it_ ’. She grins, briefly (her lip tips up on one side; who do you think she is?) at the thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to anyone who can guess where she's been...? Ah, it's small hints: if you can name/guess one place, then virtual cake and tea. :) 
> 
> If anyone is interested in BETA-ing/proofreading the scribbles, do let me know.


End file.
